


Up The Ladder

by ariesconcepts (WomanKings)



Category: The Get Down (TV)
Genre: Healing, Past Child Abuse, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-30
Updated: 2019-06-30
Packaged: 2020-05-31 12:23:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19425925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WomanKings/pseuds/ariesconcepts
Summary: Mylene goes all the way up the ladder, away from it all.





	Up The Ladder

**Author's Note:**

> Finding old fanfictions and choosing to upload them again? What??? Also, 2019/2020—songfics are back and they're fORREAL. 
> 
> But seriously, hello, I love this fic because I really do relate to Mylene and her feelings towards her father. I wrote this before Part 2, so Ramon is still alive and under the impression that he's Mylene's father. It just made the editing process a lot quicker, you know? As always, kudos and comments are very much appreciated!

Mylene was fourteen when her father tried to drown her.

He had called it a baptism, and at the time Mylene believed him. What her father said was went, his position as pastor and head of the house making his word the word of God. Only now as a grown woman can Mylene look back at the “baptism” with horror and disgust. Here he was, this man of the cloth, and yet he took the Lord’s words and twisted them, used them to beat Mylene, her sister and mother into submission. 

Baptisms were supposed to be clean and sacred. They were pressed and starched, washed in white and bleached until they gleamed. People that were baptized went under in long flowing robes, went under the water babbling and screaming for forgiveness and then came up renewed. Jesus was with them in that moment, within them. Miracles took place in the baptismal pool (or river, or bathtub)—the blackened souls of the Bronx were dipped in red blood and came out as white as the snow.

_O the blood that gives me strength from day to day_

_It will never, never lose its power_

According to her father, the water put new life into people. So, if it _was_ a baptism why couldn’t Mylene breathe? The candidates volunteered to go under. They went happily, with joyful tears in their eyes. Mylene went down with a fight, trashing and kicking. She screamed but her cries were not the cries of a saved soul—they were the cries of a scared little girl, terrified of death, of what happened afterwards. Would it count, Mylene thought? Would her soul go to heaven if her father killed her while dipping her in the bathtub? Or were pastors supposed to use something better than city gin all rusty and ice-cold? Surely she was being blessed; Jesus was in her, wasn’t he? If the blood of the lamb was water then it was in her lungs, wrapped vice-like around her throat.

“ _Por favor! Parate! Me siento!”_ She shrieked between dunks in the water. Her father gave her only a handful of seconds to breathe before forcing her back under. He was deaf to her pleading, to the fear and desperation in her eyes. He lashed her with the words of the Bible, his shouts of scripture drowning out her pleas.

Up, breathe and under again. The tap was loud in Mylene’s ears, whooshing and roaring like a waterfall. She could barely hear her father any more, could barely hear her mother begging for him to stop.

They went on for another five minutes, Ramon dunking and Mylene fighting for breath, before her mother finally got into the bathroom. She tore her husband off of her daughter, screaming still, and Mylene sat up in the bathtub, hand on her chest as she heaved. She was too far gone out of her body to see her father sink to his knees or appreciate the sorrow take his face. Mylene did not have to see him to know how he felt; she knew how her father was. He prayed, he hurt, he broke and then he broke down, his tears and mournful looks the only proof of his guilt. 

Mylene lurched out of the bath, water splashing around her feet as she scrambled out of the bathroom. She couldn’t bear to see him upset, couldn’t bear to hear those empty platitudes about how it hurt him more than it hurt her. And she didn’t want her mother to comfort her, didn't want tea and a warm blanket, didn’t want to be lulled to sleep with ‘he’s sorry’ and ‘he gets overzealous’. What she wanted was peace, solitude; she wanted to be all alone and lonely with her thoughts.

Mylene went to her room, threw open her bedroom window, climbed up the precarious fire escape and sat on the roof. It was freezing out, and she was tempting a cold being out there in her nightgown. She shivered, teeth clacking together as she tried to calm herself down.

She was miserable, more than miserable. Something about being on the roof that night made her feel melancholy. Mylene saw just how much she didn’t have and all that she was missing. Right now, she was at the bottom of the heap and would probably be there for a mighty long time. Girls like her didn’t go anywhere. They dreamed of brighter days, of mansions and sunshine and sweet tomorrows but that was where it all ended—with dreams.

She lifted her eyes to the night sky. The stars weren’t visible in the Bronx. There was too much smog, too much light pollution—the stars never learned how to shine brightly. But Mylene thought and wondered, wondered if somebody just _taught_ them, got rid of all the light and smog, that maybe those stars could shine like nothing else.

Her eyes and lungs full of Jesus, Mylene vowed then that she wouldn’t rest until there were stars shining in the Bronx.

* * *

Mylene's mother casted out the words 'promise ring' like a spell to bind her. It sat over Mylene heavy and ugly, like a curse. Her parents talked about it around the dinner table constantly, mouths full of the type of man she should marry and the type of woman Mylene should avoid. Her father knew how she felt about disco music and scoffed at the stars Mylene worshipped.

“Why would you want to be a sinner? You think they’re getting into the kingdom of heaven exposing their bodies and singing their filthy songs?" Her father shook his head. "Be smart. You’re a good girl, Mylene.”

She was smart enough not to say anything back, but inside she fumed and burned. Even if she did speak, it wasn't like her father could understand that she had feelings like these women, that felt and thought, and that there were emotions in her much deeper than Ramon could even begin to comprehend. Mylene shoveled food into her mouth and nodded like she agreed. Her father was pleased and because he was pleased, her mother was too. Dinner moved on without her. Mylene's stomach boiled.

She helped with dishes, bumping shoulders with her mother. Her mother didn’t say anything else about the ring or about any promise ceremony. It was good of her to do, but Mylene knew that it wasn’t for her sake. Her mother was a bruja in her own right, casting spells, weaving magic to keep the peace. Mortal wounds were soothed over with gospel songs, washed clean with dessert. They'd fight some other time; for now, they'd breathe.

When the dishes were dried and tucked away, Mylene stole to her room. She waited until the house was silent before pulling a shoe box out from under her bed. It used to hold a pair of her mother’s sensible heels, but now it was filled with clippings from magazines. There’s a picture of a topless Pam Grier and a singing Donna Summers, head thrown back as she hit an orgasmic note. There are countless other women in the box, smooth-faced and brown and not good for her to know about. They were the type of women her father hates. Dirty women he called them. Men shouldn’t like them, women shouldn’t aspire to be them.

What her father said was law in every place of the house except for her room at night. If Mylene was honest with herself, she could say she didn’t think much about her father’s opinions. She ran her fingers over these women, a stone turning in her tummy as she thought about them. They confused her – did she want to be them or be with them? The feeling she felt looking at Zeke, looking at other boys came to her when she looked at the women. She couldn’t explain it to nobody but Yolanda and Regina, and even they didn’t have a name for it.

Mylene’s father has lots of names for those women and people like them. They’re horrible names, stinging her even when she knew she wasn’t like that. She was a girl that liked to sing, that liked to hop up on couches and act out plays when her parents weren’t home. She was a girl that would someday become somebody’s somebody – even if that somebody didn’t fit her papa’s idea of a clean person.

Mylene held the box in her hands until all the pictures were seen. The minute the last photo was taken into her, she pushed the box back under the bed. There was such a fear of being caught, of being found out. It shouldn’t matter because she’s not one of them, but every time she thought about her father or mother finding it, Mylene felt sick. She’s not upset with herself or ashamed, but there’s the heaviest sensation of guilt and a want for a hiding place.

Besides, the box was already something that was just for her like the roof or the stars.

It's warm when she went up that time. She put her chin on her knees and looked up at the sky. Mylene hummed a song under her breath about places far away and rainbows and dreams that came true. She thought about Donna Summers singing songs about sex and women that dressed anyway the like.

There were no stars in the sky, but that was okay. Someday, she would be where the night sky is illuminated, where she could feel safe. Someday, her heart will rest easy, and she’ll have a word for a girl like her.

* * *

Mylene came home in the middle of summer, hair loose and clothes tight. She was a sight to see, stomping down the street in heels and a purse swinging. It’d been ten years, maybe more, since she'd been back to the Bronx. A lot of people accused her of being changed by fame. They said once she made her money, she didn't fuck with the small people no more and that she thought she was too good for everybody. Mylene'd never thought that way in her life. She knew she didn't have a right to put herself higher than nobody. She came from the same dirty streets as the rest. She was just tired that's all, of the scrabbling for cash, of being broke down and broke.

She stood at her parents’ front door, taking their love and hugs and kisses with a big smile on her face. Her mother took her bag from her while her father poured her a drink. He gave her a look when she downed it, but laughed when she grimaced.

“Not as good as the stuff you get, huh?”

“No, it’s good. Erm, _mucho dulce_ , that’s all.”

Her mother put a hand on her shoulder. “Oh, how are you, Mylene? Are you eating?”

Of course, she was. Between world tours, limos and bottles of champagne, Mylene felt like she was eating out almost every night. She told her mother half of a story about a weekend on the beach. Mylene’s a grown woman, but still she balked at the idea of telling her mother about the topless women that accompanied her and the men with tan chests.

“And how are Regina and Yolanda?”

“Oh, they’re good!” Mylene said this into another glass of wine. “They’re getting married, you know.”

Her parents gave their tense congratulations. They dance around the subject of marriage, but Ramon does ask, “Should I expect grandbabies at any point?”

Lydia gave him a light smack on the arm. “ _Ramon.”_

Mylene shook her hand. “No, no, it’s fine. Um, I don’t think so. You know, after we split, I’m just focusing on music that makes me feel good. I don’t think I could fit a baby into that, you know?”

Her mother gave a small smile. “I’m still so sorry you girls couldn’t stay together.

“I mean …, yeah, but things can’t last forever. We collaborate a lot and come together and sing some classics, but the three of us are really just finding our own. Yolanda even has that new soul album out.”

She didn’t ask if her parents heard it. She knew they hadn’t.

It’s all tense smiles and hugs until dinner. Her sister came over and Mylene spent a half hour crying over how big she had gotten. Her sister got married. Her sister had a decent church going husband and a child. Her mother didn’t say anything, but her father’s face spoiled the evening for her. She congratulates her sister and kissed her niece, but she went to bed early. There was only so much of her family that she could take, and not all of their jabs landed on the chin.

It was amazing to Mylene that she could be a Grammy winning singer, and still couldn’t live up to her parents’ expectations. It was like if she wasn’t waddling around with babies, or serving a man a plate of food, she wasn’t anything.

(She knew it wasn’t true, but that’s what it felt like, and sometimes feelings outweigh what’s real.)

The first thing she noticed was that her bedroom hadn’t changed a bit. It’s a shrine to her, untouched by time and human hands. Her mother probably dusted it daily. Mylene chuckled at the thought as she came to sit on her old bed.

So much of her childhood was spent here, singing and dreaming. She used to dream so much, and most of the thing she aspired to be came true. The people she knew all became stars. She and her girls, Zeke and his friends – even that fiend Shaolin made something of himself. The smile that came to her face was genuine, sparkling in the dim lamp light.

A thought came to her as she observed some of the trinkets on her dresser. She bent to look underneath the bed. She didn’t think it would still be there. She thought her mother would’ve fished it out, threw it all away or something like that. A sad smile brushed across her face as she pulled out her box of forbidden pictures – nasty women and singers she wasn’t supposed to like. If the young Mylene could only see how free she was, how happy she was.

She held each clipping up, reliving the feelings she first felt when looking at them. The lust turned into something softer, a kind sort of admiration. Mylene wondered if she was a nasty woman to some girl, if some downtrodden teen wished to look like her.

Her shoulder sunk. Oh, how it hurt to be young, but how good it felt to grow up. Her eyes turned to the window. She saw the fire escape.

Didn’t she used to sing that song with Jackie Moreno? Something about the roof? It became a huge hit after he had Mylene sing it on stage. She’s not sure if she remembered the lyrics, but she tried, starting slowly with, “Come with me, and we shall run across the sky…”

Mylene imagined that her parents were kissing her sister and her husband off. They’re putting away dinner and tidying up the kitchen. They’re getting ready for bed. Her father’s doing bible study tomorrow.

_And illuminate the night._

She climbed up every fire escape she’s seen, but nothing felt like the one from home – rusted and aging.

_I will try and guide you,_

She went up two levels and then three. The apartments over her childhood home are empty now, husks of the former selves blown by the winds of time. She thought she remembered the upstairs neighbor bringing casserole after her little sister was born.

_to better times and brighter days_.

She could see most of the Bronx, of her new home Manhattan. She wondered if this was what Zeke saw too, and Yolanda, and Regina.

_Just don’t be afraid._

Mylene’s never been afraid of heights, never been afraid of getting to the top. When her feet connect with the roof, she felt a sense of familiarity. This was a place where things made sense, where she could learn something new about herself. She used to consider the roof to be a place of understanding. Everything that hurt, everything that stung was taken to the top and seen in brighter lights.

Mylene took a seat at the edge with her feet dangling over. She looked up at the sky. There were still no stars in the Bronx. Still too much smog and more lights than there used to be – ain’t no way for nothing bright to shine. She knew that wasn’t true either. There’s countless twinkling things, glittering where her eyes just can’t see them. She used to be one of those things. She just had to dust herself off, hold herself up to some good light.

_Come up the ladder to the roof_

She can’t afford to think bitter any more. She has her moments of melancholy, but they are cut short by the idea of hope. Some little girl probably dreamed of her. Just as she wished to be Misty Holloway, a small thing with a big voice wished to be Mylene Cruz.

_Where we can be, where we can be_

_Closer to heaven, closer to heaven_

In the dark of night illuminated only by New York’s never-ending glow and the blinking lights of airplanes, Mylene hummed. After years of wishing and hoping and praying, Mylene thought she could finally feel the some of that heavenly glow on her face.

She rested easy.

* * *


End file.
